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I’ve spent the whole day running myself ragged. I had to stalk the media reports for news of the Haine scandal—there was nothing yet—get the guys up to date before they head out of town for a set of away games and come up with a Plan B for my new project. Plan A is still Vic, but he shut down a bit at the end of our conversation and I didn’t get a definitive yes before he had to go. That felt much more like a definitive no, especially after how on board he’d been before he hightailed it away from me.
It felt like a no because Vic never says no. He always says yes. And this time he didn’t. I didn’t realize how much I had counted on him to come through for me. Even Chris had assumed he’d say yes. I think we all did.
It’s very possible that my boss will force Vic to take part in this project, even if he’s changed his mind, but if he’s not comfortable… if there’s a reason he needs to say no…. I’d rather have another option to pitch to marketing than force him to film and post something he doesn’t want to. Chris won’t like it, and I’m sure I’ll feel the bite of that disappointment—I have in the past—which is why I need a kick-ass other option.
“Are you guys hungry?” I ask my younger sisters as I head into my kitchen and pull open the fridge. Unfortunately, healthy Tristan went shopping, and tired Tristan doesn’t have the energy or patience to cook any of the meals I’d planned. “Pancakes?” I pull eggs and oat milk out and put them on the counter.
“I need to lose ten pounds,” Mads says.
“Do you have chocolate chips?” Hayley asks.
I pull out a bag of semi-sweet chips and plonk them on the counter along with flour and baking powder.
“Don’t start with me, Madison,” I say, and she rolls her eyes. “If you aren’t hungry, don’t eat.”
“I’ll have one.” That means she’ll eat somewhere between two and five. I’ll double the batter.
Pancakes were one of the easiest things to master when I was twelve. They require very few ingredients, very little thought, and just a smidgeon of patience. Breakfast foods, in general, are easier to master than others, as long as we’re only counting basics. My younger siblings ate a lot of pancakes, scrambled eggs and toast for multiple meals a day. Cereal too. And apples. Bananas are cheaper, but apples last longer than most other fruits.
I measure the dry ingredients and crack two eggs into the bowl. My griddle is preheating. I don’t ask about the emergency. If it was something life-altering, there would have been less complaining, and I’d have heard by now. Instead, I wonder which one of my sisters will crack first and tell me. My guess is Hayley. She’s not a gossip, but she likes to share information, make sure everyone is on the same page. She doesn’t like secrets.
The tops of the first three pancakes are just starting to bubble and burst, and I have my spatula in hand when she can’t hold it in anymore.
“Max has a girlfriend.”
“She has to go,” Madison adds.
It’s possible that Mads knows something I don’t—the twin bond is no joke—but it’s more likely that my sisters are just being protective of their “baby brother.” Protective like a band of feral wolves, or a mama grizzly bear. It doesn’t matter that Max is nineteen, and that even the youngest, Joey, treats him like the baby. That’s what happens when you’re the only boy among five girls. Six if you count our mother. And Max and Mads were only four when Dad left. Young enough to have their world rocked, but not old enough to understand the war zone our home morphed into.
“She does.” I leave the statement ambiguous, like I might agree with them and I might be asking a question. I don’t want to poke the bears just yet.
“She’s awful,” Madison says.
I drop perfect golden cakes onto two plates and place them on my quartz countertop. Hayley reaches for one stack, and I push the other dish toward her. I only put chocolate in her cakes.
“Why is she awful?” I ask as I pour more batter onto my trusty griddle. Might as well make and freeze some extras for the next time my siblings break into my home or when I don’t feel like cooking anything.
“Well, we don’t really know her,” Hayley starts at the same time Madison says, “She just is.”
“Do we have a name?” I ask Hayley since she’s more likely to tell me without volume issues.
“Stephanie Howell,” Hayley says around a bite, and Madison lets out a sound somewhere between a cough and a huff.
It is very possible that this strange girl is the antichrist. It’s more likely that my sisters will dislike almost anyone who gets even a crumb of our brother’s attention. I understand the urge to close ranks, to keep him close and his heart whole. There’s a tendency to be distrustful of relationships after what we saw as kids, but the same protectiveness that drives my sisters to hate everyone Max even looks at is the same protectiveness that has me wanting to stand between him and our siblings.
Maybe because I feel like he’s my responsibility. They all are.
Maybe because just like he’s the only boy and the odd one out, I often feel separate from my siblings. There are five years between me and Hayley. Ten between me and Joey. Every one of my siblings is at least a half a foot taller than me. Max is almost ten inches taller than me. Add my white-blond hair—all my other siblings share the same dark waves—and I have always wondered if dad’s affair wasn’t the actual thing that ended my parents’ marriage. If maybe I, born a scant seven months after their wedding night, was the first bump in the road.
“I notice neither of you cares about Palmer’s date.” I flip my own cakes and raise an eyebrow at my sisters.
“Palmer can take care of herself,” Madison says, and yes, I’ve seen Palmer throat punch a guy for touching her ass without her permission, but Max is no slouch either. He’s six feet of teenage metabolism and muscles from his days on a baseball diamond. He’s playing on a scholarship right now, pitching, and he might not be the team’s starter, but he’s still only a sophomore. And he can handle one girl. Although maybe not the combined fury of his sisters.
“How long have they been together?”
“This is their second official date.” Hayley takes the syrup from me and drenches her pancakes. I swear the girl could live off sugar alone.
I pin my gaze on Madison, who doesn’t seem to notice. I’ve made grown men cower with the strength of my non-verbal disapproval. I’ve made more than one cry. I’ve honed the look to perfection, but my little sister just stares right back. I wonder if it was getting caught playing the tooth fairy that made me less intimidating. I’m pretty sure the sight of anyone in mesh wings and glitter would make them a lot less scary, but it cramps my intimidation tactics with my own flesh and blood.
